Macbeth comes to Edinburgh

I rise early. Even earlier than for work. My flight being at 9:20, I need to be in the airport for 7:20.

At least that’s what Schiphol is still advising. Get there two hours in advance (three hours for intercontinental flights) if you want to be sure of making your flight. After some recent experiences at Schiphol, I’m taking no chances.

Last time here, after having queued up for 30 minutes, I was told while checking in that I could have used the priority lane. So I give it a whirl. No problems. I’m in the much shorter priority queue for security. I’m through in ten minutes, including the traditional extra inspection of my trolley bag. It always gets pulled out, for some reason.

My flight departs from pier D. And I’ve plenty of time. Time a plenty to drop by the Irish pub for a quick Murphy’s Stout and Jamesons whiskey. I also pick up a bacon and egg sandwich, which I eat on my way to the pub. It’s my breakfast.

The flight is, thankfully, uneventful. And on time. About.

It’s not far to my hotel. I’m stopping out at the airport as it was so effing extortionate in the city centre. And it still wasn’t cheap here. It’s long before the official check-in time of 3pm when I troll up. But I can go to my room straight away. Which is great. I had been worrying that I’d need to leave my bags, head off into town, then return to move everything to my room.

After a bit of arranging shit – mostly switching on my laptop and accessing the internet - I take the tram into town. I’ve got quite a bit of shit with me for this evening’s talk: laptop and a dozen or so books I’m hoping to flog.

I start at the Playfair, a Wetherspoons in a shopping centre. Why? Because it’s close to where the tram terminates. And I want to get some cheap food inside me. I’m not made of effing money. And I need plenty of ballast for a long day.

Soon I’m happily sat behind a pint and an all day brunch. I’m not at the bar, but at a high table. Why? There are no seats at the bar in Wetherspoons. The eggs aren’t very well cooked. The yokes are hard. Oh well. There’s no toast to mop it up, anyway.

The place is full of the usual odd mixture that you find in Wetherspoons. Grannies drinking tea, grandads drinking John Smiths Smooth, two women of indeterminate age tapping on their phones in front of half pints of white wine, a young couple eating, daytime drinkers knocking back pint after pint of Lager. And me. Not sure which type of customer I count as.

I don’t linger that long. Things to do, beer to drink. I’m headed over to the Old Town. Which, given it’s a bit of an uphill trek, isn’t much fun with the rucksack full of books on my back.

My destination is the Jolly Judge. It’s down an alleyway and I manage to walk past it. Meaning extra unnecessary uphill walking. That’s not fun at all.

The castle and the higher parts of the Old Town hide behind a smokescreen of mist. When I reach the top, it’s like walking into a cloud.

It’s not a huge pub, but I manage to find a seat. And am soon tucking into a pint. A middle-aged couple comes and sits next to me. I hear that they’re speaking Dutch to each other. The woman asks me: “Are you a local or another tourist?” “Ik ben ook een toerist.” I reply. We proceed to have a long conversation in Dutch. Which is pretty strange.

They’ve McEwans 70/- and 80/- on keg. I thought the shilling names were usually reserved for cask. Weird to think that those two beers used to be dead common.

I have a couple, then move on. I don’t want to be too late at the Hanging Bat. The location of tonight’s talk. It kicks off at 7pm, but I aim to get there by six. I don’t quite make that time. Doesn’t matter so much as there’s not really anything to set up.

Johnny Horn, the brewer here, recognises me as soon as I walk through the door. He thrusts a beer into my grateful hand and guides me downstairs, where all the action will happen. It’s not a huge space, with room for an audience of 20-odd. And no projector. Hence the lack of setting up.

Four William Younger beers are served as I blab:

1851 60 shilling ale (6%)
1851 80 shilling ale (7.5%)
1851 stock ale (8.5%)
1885 140 shilling ale (9.5%)

It’s a bit odd, being the only one who can see all the pretty pictures of my Powerpoint. Not much point going discussing tables of numbers in detail when no-one can see them but me. Rather surreal. I hope it hasn’t detracted too much from the magic of hearing me speak.

Allan McLean, who I’ve never met before, and Robbie Pickering, who I have, are in the audience. We have a chat. I’ll be seeing Robbie again tomorrow in Glasgow.

I only sell two books. The bag of books I lug back to the tram stop is almost as heavy as before. And there’s still a hill to climb.

I don’t stay up too late. I need to be up fairly early tomorrow to travel to Glasgow for my date at the Scottish Brewing Archive. It’s going to be a very busy day.




Buy my new Scottish book. It's why was in Scotland.

The Playfair
Omni Centre
Leith Street
Edinburgh EH1 3AJ


Jolly Judge
493 Lawnmarket,
Edinburgh EH1 2PB.
http://www.jollyjudge.co.uk/


The Hanging Bat
133 Lothian Road
Edinburgh
City of Edinburgh EH3 9AB
http://www.thehangingbat.com/

Milk Stout - the dregs

It's incredible how the references to Molk Stout dry up after WW II. Not that the style wasn't still brewed - it was, in fact, extremely popular.

In 1943, a search of the newspaper archives gets 233 hits for "Milk Stout". For 1945, it's just one. Let's see if we can work out why.

This court case got me wondering:

"Berwick Petty Sessions
THURSDAY
Before the Mayor (Councillor J. Fleming), J. W. Carmichael, A. Hay, Esq., and Miss Cockburn.

James Wallace, 5, Hill Crescent, East Ord, was charged with cycling without front rear lights on 2nd February.—Fined £l.

J. and R. Tennent, Ltd., Well Park Brewery. Glasgow, were charged with giving with a certain article food, to wit, milk stout, a label calculated to mislead as to the nature, substance and quality of the said article, the stout being sold by them to A.

Middlemas and Son, Ltd., Kelso, and thereafter to a local retailer.

Mr Stanley Strugnell prosecuted. The defendants were represented by Mr C. P. Forster, solicitor, Berwick, who pleaded guilty to the charge.

Mr Strugnell explained that Mr Arlidge, Sampling Officer, had purchased a bottle labelled milk stout, whereas the bottle contained only ordinary stout.

Mr Forster maintained that the article in question was not ordinary stout as it contained a certain proportion of lactose sugar, but not the quantity of lactose which had formed a part of pre-war milk stout. The defendants had been informed by the suppliers about a month after the date of the offence that the milk stout sugar with which they were now being supplied had not the same content as previously, and immediately took steps to have the milk stout label withdrawn.

Defendants were fined £5 and costs."
The Berwick Advertiser - Thursday 17 February 1944, page 3.

The gist, as I see it, isn't that Tennent's Milk Stout didn't contain milk, but that it didn't contain enough lactose. Which was the result of a change in the sugar supplied to them. It sounds as if it's purely about quantity of lactose used. Which is the same argument as in the case a couple of decades earlier.

But a few years later, that no longer seems to be the case:

"Slips that Pass
ORIGINS WRITING in the tavernacular, a correspondent finds that there is no milk stout nowadays. Reason is that a year or so ago the word "milk" was dropped, as the Food Ministry did not like it and because no milk was used in its manufacture. It contains lactose, a form of sugar derived from whey, and was first produced in the early part of the century. Very many names in common use are misleading. Prussian Blue, popular artist's colour, orginated in this country and not Prussia. The Turkish bath, came from Russia and not Turkey, while Jordan almonds do not grow on the banks of the Jordan. The name is simply a corruption of the French "jardin," meaning garden. Brussels sprouts did not come from Brussels, and French beans did not originate in France. York ham (you've heard of it) did not come from York, it just got its name from "Y.C." a trade mark. Stilton cheese is made in Leicestershire and got its name by accident, just because the Leicestershire cheeses were picked up by the stage coach at Stilton. Irish stew Isn't Irish . . it came from Germany . . and lead pencils contain no lead . . only graphite. T. J."
Western Daily Press - Wednesday 25 May 1949, page 6.

You have to realise that during this period, when a Labour government was in power, ministries had lots of direct influence in various industries. Partly through nationalisation and partly through bureaucracy. ANd it seems that the Food Ministry, unlike magistrates before them, had decided lactose wasn't good enough to qualify as Milk Stout. Only milk itself would do.


Which leaves me wondering about the legality of the term today in reference to beer. Has that ruling been overturned in the meantime? Or is it just that no-one cares any more?

Leaving Atlanta

No need to rise too early.  Not much to do this morning other than pack. And watch some shit TV.

My plan is simple: check out at noon, wander down street to pub, drink beer. It is pretty much my plan for every day. Eat some food. That would be a good idea, too.

Having flogged a reasonable number of books, my luggage is lighter. Most of the remaining books I load into my check-in bag. Leaving the bits I’m going to be carrying much lighter. Hooray.

I check out and leave my bags at the hotel. Then make the sort walk to Meehan’s. As you might have guessed from the name, it’s an Irish pub. But I know they have a reasonable beer selection. I was here a couple of years ago. I can’t be arsed to trek any further.

Wedging my belly betwixt bar stool and bar counter, I order a beer.

Terrapin Hopsecutioner IPA, 7.3% ABV
Pale and fairly clear. Pretty grapefruity, but not that bitter, really. A pleasant enough lunchtime beer.

Not feeling quite so knacked today. Though I’m still a bit yawny. It’s been an odd trip. Just five nights and a single event. That that did go really well.

Oh no,  there’s an advert for Golden Corral on the TV. What bad memories that recalls. Makes me literally want to vomit.

The barman just gave me a taster of Orpheus Transmigration of Souls, a Double IPA of 10%. Hides the booze very well.

They keep showing the baseball brawl from yesterday. Odd that two big strong athletes should fight like 8-year-old wimps.

I’m wondering what to eat. I’m tempted by fish and chips or shepherd’s pie. But both are more than I really want to eat. I spot a bloke along the bar tucking into tacos. Hadn’t noticed then on the menu. Looks perfect. I order them.

They’re pretty damn good. And not too heavy. My stomach is always like Andrew’s when I’m in the US.

For some reason there are Liverpool scarves behind the bar. Not from Liverpool itself, but all sorts of US Liverpool supporters’ clubs. Maybe it’s the Irish/catholic connection.

Time for another beer.

Orpheus Transmigration of Souls, 10% ABV
An Atlanta beer, evidently. Bit cloudier, this one. More of an Izal taste here – is that Citra? Or is in Simcoe? One of those weird modern hops. OK, I guess. Again, not that bitter. What’s happening to US IPA? Has it turned into a sort of fruit punch?

It’s not that busy. The staff chatting and joking with each other. Pretty friendly. I suppose it is a wet Tuesday lunchtime. Not exactly peak pub time.

Odd thing about my talk yesterday was that I got almost as many questions about music as beer.

It’s so strange when I’m “on stage”. I feel really confident, have all these jokes come into my head, can cope with anything that goes wrong, never run out of words to say. Almost like I’m a different person. Getting a whole room to laugh out loud is quite a rush I can understand why people get addicted to performing.

I’m such a lucky bastard. I get to travel all over. Meet lots of cool people. And even get some of it paid for. If only I were 20 years younger. I reckon I’ve got another ten years more of this. Then the travelling will start getting too hard. Though Mum made it to Australia when she was 74.

Just saw the Tetley sign again on the way to the bogs. God, that brings up mixed emotions.

Three pints of DIPA. That should do me for today. No expensive airport whisky necessary.

Oh no, Golden Corral on the TV again. Excuse me while I go for a puke in the bog.

Bill paid, back picked up and taxi hailed, I’m on my way to the airport through a dark and rainy Atlanta. A city I’ve still seen bugger all of, despite a couple of visits.

My bag is soon checked in and I’m breezing through security. I love having TSA pre. It save so much bother. And undressing.

I always try to eat some decent food before a transatlantic flight. Great, there’s a food court. Usually that means good value. I go to a Chinesey place and order Peking beef (no rice) and two spring rolls. It’s not really spicy, but pretty tasty. So much so, that I fetch another. It’s only $3 something a pop. Bargain.

I’ve still got some time before boarding. Why not drop by that TGI Fridays over there? I squeeze into a barstool. And order a Sweetwater 420 Extra Pale Ale. And a double bourbon.

I watch a couple of crap films, then get my head down. I manage to get a couple of hours of reasonable sleep. Not that much worse than most nights while I was away.

My bag is the third off. Great. Time to get a taxi.





Meehan's Public House Downtown
200 Peachtree Street,
Atlanta,
GA 30303.
http://meehanspublichouse.com/location/downtown

Let’s Brew - 1880 Barclay Perkins XX

This will be exciting for you. An old Mild recipe with more than just mild malt and Goldings. Yes, a truly thrilling change of pace.

The OG is the same as in the 1860’s, but there have been changes elsewhere. There’s sugar in addition to malt and American hops as well as English ones. Despite the use of higher alpha hops, the calculated IBUs are down. So quite a different beer.

I’m not sure exactly when the 1880 Free Mash Tun Act came into effect, but I suspect it was later than March, which is when this beer was brewed. Which would explain the absence of unmalted grain. Sugar, remember, had been allowed since 1847.

Talking of sugar, No. 1 invert is a guess. The only description of it in the log simply says: “Scotch”. Feel free to use any type you fancy. It could have been just straight sucrose, for all we know.

The hops are described as MK and American. I think my choice of varieties is about right. Though you could substitute Goldings for the Fuggles.

1880 Barclay Perkins XX Ale
pale malt	14.00 lb	86.15%
No. 1 invert sugar	2.25 lb	13.85%
Cluster 90 min	4.00 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	2.25 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	2.25 oz
OG	1079.5
FG	1027.7
ABV	6.85
Apparent attenuation	65.16%
IBU	106
SRM	9
Mash at	160º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

Of All People, It Had To Happen To Tommy!

You'll be relieve no doubt that this isn't another travel report. But in despair that it's about another of my recent obsessions: Milk Stout

Or sort of. Because there's only a passing mention of Milk Stout.

"THE most popular man in the Ayrshire village of Patna is Tommy Henderson, a life-long cripple. From one week's end to another Tommy wheels his way through the village in his old hand-propelled chair. He stops to chat to the wives in the queue, or spend half-hour watching the cobbler at work.

In the evenings he goes to the bar of the Doon Hotel. He drinks only a glass of milk stout. But he's a most welcome visitor.

Friends help him on to the piano stool, and he plays and sings entertaining the company like a man without a care in the world.

Some months ago the men at the local decided it was time Tommy had a new motor-driven chair. A "swear box" was dug out. Every swear word meant a penny towards Tommy's chair.

Tommy didn't know what the swear box was for. The pennies rolled in fast.

A lot came from men who never swore in their lives. A favourite saying after putting in a penny was, "It's a darned good idea this," and in went another copper.

Last week the box was nearly full. It held about £15. It was decided to open it and see if Tommy's new chair could be bought in time for Christmas.

The good news that the box was full spread through the village. Spread, in fact, too far.

That night Doon Hotel was burgled.

In the morning Mrs Janet Dale, the proprietrix, found the till sitting on a chair. Only the coppers were left. £100 of stock was missing, including 36 bottles of whisky, 24 half-bottles, and 12 bottles of brandy.

The thieves also took a Christmas stocking containing five guineas in coppers and silver for the blind of St Dunstan's.

And — they took the swear box! To the 400 people of Patna this was the last straw. It's a disappointment that about hundred of them will have to go without their Ne'er Day half-bottle.

But it's a thousand times worse that Tommy may not get his new chair after all!"
Sunday Post - Sunday 12 December 1948, page 13.

The opening sentence sounds like one those spoof 1950's comics that you find in Viz, you know, things like Black Bag.

I'm susrprised that they had motorised wheelchairs in the 1940's. But also that there would be a burglary in such a small village. It really is a tiny place. I thought that before 1960 you could leave your doors unlocked and your windows open without having to worry about some thieving bastard having it away with all your valuables. Who would have guessed that the past wasn't the idyl it's claimed to be?

It's not a surprise that Tommy drank Milk Stout. It was a sort of invalids drink like, er, Invalid Stout before it. Watching others work. That's something I'm keen on myself. So much more fun than workingyourself.

Atlanta again

Another fairly restless night. What’s wrong? I’m usually such a good sleeper.

Mike has given me a four pack of the beers from last night’s talk. After my bad experience with beer-soaked clothes on my last US trip, I’m a bit wary of having bottles in my checked-in bag. Especially corked and caged ones.

I drink the Cotbusser and Grodziskie. Seeing the level of carbonation in them, it’s a wise choice, I feel. Both are good beers. And, not being too strong, make the perfect breakfast.

Did I mention how good a brewer Mike is? Mild, AK, Burton – he can brew all the important styles well.

Mike is giving me a lift to the airport. He’s picking me up a couple of hours early so we can drop by Sierra Nevada. It’s right next to the airport, so why not?

The Sierra Nevada complex is enormous. After passing the ornate gates monogrammed “SN”, it’s a half mile or so to the brewery itself. Which is also pretty big. As is the parking lot. And the shiny copper kettles I can glimpse through the windows. They look about the same size as those in the old Heineken brewery in Amsterdam.

The tap room, obviously, is huge. And full. We find seats in one corner. A prime spot, next to the bogs. Unfortunately, the collaboration beer with Fullers, which was on cask, is all gone. Bit of a bummer that. I have an IPA of some sort instead.

We order food and chat. Neither of us get large meals. I have some delicious pork belly. Yummee! 

I finish with a Bigfoot. Which I’ve only ever had bottled until now.

Mike drops me at Asheville airport and we say our goodbyes. It’s been great spending time with Mike again. A talented brewers and all-round good bloke.

Being a tiny airport, the formalities take next to no time. But, being a tiny airport, there’s only one bar. And all the seats at it are occupied. I go to the gate instead and read Private Eye.

Bad weather in Atlanta means nothing is allowed to take off or land. Which delays my flight by 30 to 40 minutes. No biggie for me. I’ve nothing planned this evening. And no connecting flight. Unlike most of my fellow passengers, who are looking a little nervous.

They’re asking for bump volunteers again. Starting offer is 400 Delta dollars. When they raise it to $600, a woman close to me accepts. Her daughter is a bit miffed. “I’ll have to hang around at Atlanta airport waiting for your flight.”

It’s a bigger aircraft this time. Much larger overhead bins. Though me rucksack is much lighter since I got rid of most of the books it carried.

I’m staying at a different hotel from the one on my way in. Though it’s only about 50 metres away. The lifts are really weird. One set takes you up two floors. Then you have to walk around the corner to a second set that takes you to higher floors. A bit of a pain.

I mooch around my room for a while, watching some crap TV. And a little baseball.

There’s been a spectacular fight. Giants pitcher Hunter Strickland pinged the hip of National’s Bryce Hunter with a fastball. He saw it as deliberate, ran over to the mound and tried to whallop the pitcher. Neither looked a very accomplished fighter. Like two kangaroos boxing. It ended up with all the players from both sides piling in. There are endless replays from all possible angles.

My destination this evening is Max Lager's brewpub, just a couple of hundred yards down Peachtree. They claim it’s Georgia’s oldest brewpub. Who am I to doubt them?

Bit gloomy and not very full. Maybe everyone is upstairs where there are more draughts (but a smaller food offering). Me and yet another bar make acquaintance. Soon it gets pretty intimate. As intimate as a bar and a belly can be.

What should I drink? Not another IPA. I know – a Porter.

Three Threads Porter, 5.8% ABV
Oh no, that Three Threads shit again. Nice and dark. Decent coffee/cocoa flavour. OK.

The only other people at the bar are a couple speaking Polish and a man in his mid-50’s shovelling food down while going tippy-tap on his phone. He occasionally comes up for air and orders a beer. This is fun.

The Polish couple keep staring, not exactly at me, more around me. They seem fascinated by something behind me. Presumably fellow diners. I really don’t feel like turning around and looking. Partly from my English desire to avoid any possible embarrassment. Partly because I’m totally knacked and really can’t be arsed.

I can barely force myself to knock back the beer. But I do. And a not too inspiring hamburger.

Just the one beer. And the last two bottles from Mike back in my room. The strong two, October Beer and Arctic Ale. They soon sentence me to slumbering.





Sierra Nevada Brewing Co.
100 Sierra Nevada Way,
Fletcher,
NC 28732.
http://www.sierranevada.com/


Max Lager's Wood-Fired Grill & Brewery
320 Peachtree St NE,
Atlanta,
GA 30308.
http://www.maxlagersrestaurantatlanta.com/

Macbeth in Edinburgh

The only Scottish date in my rambling Macbeth tour is tomorrow at the Hanging Bat:

https://www.facebook.com/events/719209984917456/?acontext=%7B%22ref%22%3A%2229%22%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3A%22plan_user_invited%22%2C%22action_history%22%3A%22null%22%7D

It kicks off at 19:00. And should be lots of fun. But please leave your preconceptions at the door. Some of the content of my talk may be disturbing to anyone with style nazi tendencies.




Buy my new Scottish book. It's why I'll be in Scotland.

Let’s Brew Wednesday - 1862 Barclay Perkins XXX

You know what I can never get too much of? Crazy old Mild recipes. This is another good one.

And proof – should you have doubted my word – that the term “Mild” had nothing to do with low ABV or a low hopping rate.

By the 1860s, XXX was Barclay Perkins top of the range Mild Ale. Though it wasn’t around for that much. My last spotting of it was in 1869. I’m not sure why, but, despite the style’s huge popularity, London brewers had dropped all but X Ale by 1900. Super strong Mild had, perhaps, simply gone out of fashion.

A majority of the hops were pretty fresh, but I’ve still reduced the hopping rate. Nevertheless, it ends up with well over 100 calculated IBUs. Not exactly typical for a Mild today. I’ve just guessed the hop varieties. All I know for certain is that they were English.

As for the malt, the original contained 20 of pale and 100 of white malt. So I’m sure it would have been a pretty pale beer. Probably around what BeerSmith calculated.

Not sure that there’s much else I can tell you.

1862 Barclay Perkins XXX Ale
pale malt	22.50 lb	100.00%
Goldings 75 mins	5.00 oz
Goldings 60 mins	5.00 oz
Goldings 30 mins	5.00 oz
OG	1098.6
FG	1030
ABV	9.08
Apparent attenuation	69.57%
IBU	132
SRM	9
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	165º F
Boil time	75 minutes
pitching temp	60º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

Asheville day three

Not sure what’s going on with the sleeping. The final half of the night is a checkerboard of waking and dozing. Leaving me not hugely refreshed.

I’m in no rush, at least. I’m not being picked up until around 3 PM. My plan is to wander into town and hit a couple of breweries.

I get an email from Mike asking what cables I have to connect my laptop to the projector. I’ve had problems with cables before and now always carry both an HDMI and a VGA one with me. I’m sure one will work.

Before leaving. I remember to water the flowerpots. It’s been quite warm and I wouldn’t want them drying out. It’s the one thing my hosts requested. Wouldn’t want to let them down.

The house isn’t that far from South Slope, a neighbourhood in central Asheville with a stupid number of breweries. It’s about a ten-minute walk. Pretty easy, especially as it’s all downhill. But there’s the long-term problem: the walk back is all uphill. Up a pretty steep hill. And, after my decades residing in the Netherlands, I’m all out of hill-climbing capacity.

I decide to start out at Green Man. Their new place, which was half-built last time I was in town. The brewery, the old one, where Mike used to work.

It’s a beautiful, sunny day as I work my way down the hill. Through an archetypal neighbourhood of wood-clad houses, embraced by mature trees and proper gardens, not just the usual lawns. (The steepness of the land rules out lawns of any size.) Like a film set of the idyllic American street.

At the bottom of the hill is a weird pub we noticed last night. It still has the signs up for a tool shop, but inside is a strange Hawaiian sort of place*.

The new Green Man building is huge. The downstairs bar is at least two normal storeys high. Looks like it cost a few bob. Though it is a bit cavernous. And lacking atmosphere.

Flagship ESB 5.5%
Looks too dark to me – more like a Brown Ale. Tastes too roasty. And a bit on the sweet side. Given it blind, I would never have guessed it was an ESB. Apart from the ABV, it doesn’t seem to have much in common with the Fullers beer.

The barmaid just gave me a taster of Berry Berlinerwiesse (it really is spelt “wiesse”). Not very sour and with an artificial-tasting fruit flavour. More like an alcopop than a Berliner Weisse.

I did reasonably well flogging books yesterday – eight in total. Hopefully I can shift the remaining 25 today.

Quite a few people have wanted to have their photo taken with me. Which is slightly weird. Odd that I seem better known on this side of the Atlantic.

Time for another beer.

Trickster IPA 6.4% ABV
A bit hazy, but not full-blown murk. Nice tropical fruit aroma – mango, passion fruit, peach. (I know that last one isn’t tropical). A pleasant enough IPA.

Most people are going upstairs to the patio. Presumably to bake themselves in the sun. No way I’ll do that. I like to maintain my healthy pallor.

Everyone under 30 is being asked to show ID. Why didn’t they ask me? I still look like I’m under 30, don’t I? I do in my head. Surely that’s what everyone else sees, too?


Two is enough for here. I feel like checking out Wicked Weed. Just to see if I can taste the evil in their beer yet.

It’s pretty hot outside. I work up a nice sweat walking up the slight incline to Wicked Weed. That big hill on the way back to the house is going to be fun. But that’s later.

The takeover doesn’t seem to have put folks off. The patio is mobbed. As is the bar inside. Luckily, there are two free seats. But before I can grab one, two women move in. Though they don’t sit down. Obviously they’re just going to order. So I hover behind them until they’re done. Amazingly, the barmaid ignores them and asks me if a want to order, despite me standing well back from the bar.

Eventually the women are done and I can park my sorry fat arse at the bar.

BA Smoked Rye, 8.5% ABV ($5.75 for a snifter)
Big and Stouty. Thankfully not too smoky.

Evidently no-one has heard how wicked this brewery now is. Then again, quite a few people are ordering house Chardonnay. So not exactly beer geeks.

The slightly drunk young man sitting next to me asks if I’m writing beer reviews. “Just taking notes to I can remember what I’ve drunk.” I reply. A bit later he’s led away by his very pregnant wife. Must be a fun day watching hubby get pissed while drinking water.

I order a roast beef sandwich. Got to eat sometime.

Not tasting the evil in the beer yet. Maybe it was brewed before the sellout. I get another beer, too:

Pernicious IPA, 7.4% ($4.75 for a US pint)
It’s pretty cheap in here, really. A grapefruity IPA. Quite bitter for a modern US IPA. Pretty easy drinking, though.

The nice young people from NYC sitting next to me wonder which King Henry has his face on the wall. “Is it Henry V or Henry VI?”

“It’s Henry VIII,” I tell them, “the one with all the wives. He never said that about hops, you know. He only forbade Ale brewers from using hops. He had his own personal Beer brewer, who did brew with hops.”

Hope that didn’t come across as too pushy. They continue to chat with me, so I guess not.

I deliberately leave returning until quite late. I’m hoping that Gabe, who’s picking me up, will arrive before I get to the top of the hill. I really don’t fancy the climb. I’ve only gone about 50 metres up the hill when I hear a car horn behind me. It’s Gabe. Now how’s that for timing?

The brewery is filled with chairs. Around 50 or so. After 4 PM those with VIP tickets start rolling up. It entitles them to a chat with me before the crowd turns up. Which is what happens. I also shift a couple of books, which is always good.

I’ve brought a selection with me. The home Brewer’s Guide to Vintage Beer. Both volumes of Scotland!. And a few copies of Mild!, Strong! And Porter!. There are quite a few of my books clogging up our living room. Dolores would love to see the back of them.

The man who wore the dog collar yesterday is here. Totally civilian dressed. Knew he was no vicar. Eventually.

Mike has jerry-rigged a screen from two boards. It’s held up with duct tape, but keeps falling down. I connect my laptop to the projector using the HDMI cable. Nothing appears on the screen. Oh no. I fiddle with the video output key. Still nothing. Someone hands me the projector manual. Looks like I need to connect using VGA. Thankfully, that works. 

That’s a relief. I feel naked when there are no pretty pictures behind me.

Mike is my warm-up act. He gives a talk – using a marker and big sheets of paper, which he hangs up - comparing Old English 800, a Malt Liquor, to an 1880’s X Ale. The specs are surprisingly similar, except for the hopping rate. He provides tasters of both the Malt Liquor and an X Ale he’s brewed himself. It’s a wonderfully bonkers concept.

Then it’s my turn. Being a new talk, I’ve a few jitters. Including stuff on music, which I’ve never talked about (in public) before.

Half of the screen keeps falling down. But it doesn’t put me off my stride. Eventually we just prop it up.

Based on the number of laughs I get (my usual maatstaaf (apologies for the Dutch. It’s the first word that came into my head. Sometimes I think my inburgering has been too successful)) it goes really well. And there are lots of questions. A surprisingly large number about the music part.

Questions done, I hang around a while to chat. Then Mike, Gabe and I head out to eat. A pizza place again. Where I again don’t eat pizza.



* Looking it up on the internet, it’s a place selling kava, a drink made from a root grown on pacific islands, which seems to have some mild psychoactive effect.



Noble Kava
283 Biltmore Ave,
Asheville,
NC 28801.
http://www.noblekava.com/


Green Man Brewery
27 Buxton Ave,
Asheville,
NC 28801.
http://www.greenmanbrewery.com/


Wicked Weed Brewing Pub
91 Biltmore Ave,
Asheville,
NC 28801.
http://wickedweedbrewing.com/


Zebulon Artisan Ales  
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/

Asheville day two

Not the greatest sleep again. The latter half is a mix of dozing and restless turning.

The house I’m staying in has a hi-tech toilet. Though I’m too nervous to engage any of its special functions. They look a bit scary.

After warily completing my ablutions, I water the plant pots outside the front door. The garden is much nicer than the usual US expanse of bland lawn. It has plants and shit in it. Happy to keep it looking nice.

Mike picks me up at 10:30 and we drive over to the brewery in Weaverville. For the moment it’s the brewery. Evidently another one is due to open soon just a little further down the same alleyway. For the record, Weaverville has a population of just 3,000. That’s fewer inhabitants than Balderton, where I grew up. I can’t imagine Baldo ever having two breweries.

On the way over, Mike tells me has no desire to get any bigger. His 7-barrel plant gives him total freedom to brew what he wants too. If he grew much bigger, then he wouldn’t be able to experiment as much as he does. With no debt and no investors, he’s in complete control. I’m sure it’s a situation many brewers would envy.


I watch Mike set up, mop the floor, arrange the furniture outside and move the tardis into place. There’s nothing quite as relaxing as watching someone else work while you have a beer in your hand. Especially when it’s a full imperial pint. Not being a total pisshead, I kick off the day with Maclay 60 bob.

A beer that yesterday was confusing the hell out of the punters. Who expected a dark Scotch Ale and were served a beer above the same hue as Pils. It’s a lovely light refreshing beer. Perfect for breakfast.

After a while, Gabe brings tacos. Which form the solid part of our breakfast.


Punk stuff is still spitting out of the speakers. Mike tells me he’s been very impressed by The Damned. Not a band he’d known that well. I have to agree with him. Re-listening to them in preparation for this trip, I was pleasantly surprised by their musical prowess. Well put together songs, just played at kamikaze pace. You have to love a band that manages to get through a song in less than a minute.

Mike tells me about some frustrating customers:

“They come in and say: ‘Give me your IPA.’ When I say we don’t have one, they turn around and walk out again. They drive all the way over here and then don’t even bother having a beer.”

At 1 PM Mike opens up and people start trickling in. The same scenario as yesterday: I tell people the background of the beers and try to flog books. While drinking from an imperial pint glass.

I didn’t quite get around every beer yesterday. Putting that right is my first task. Starting with the Whitbread SS Stout.

The beers are going down well with the public. The Burton has been particularly well received. Though I’m pleasantly surprised by the popularity of the Mild. At least this one is the colour people expect a Mild to be: a darkish brown.

Maybe there is a place on today’s bar far older, stronger forms of Mild. Stranger things have happened. Who the hell would have predicted Milk Stout making a comeback? A style as trendy as a fat fifty year old in a string vest a few years ago. Mind you, a string vest does feature in my talk tomorrow. A trendy one, too. The vest, I mean. Not my talk. They’ll never be trendy.

A man around my age enters wearing a dog collar. Judging by the shoes and trousers he’s wearing, I doubt very much that he’s a vicar.

I have to agree with the punters: the Burton is very pleasant. And rather scarily easy-drinking. Getting totally plastered would be no problem. I’m ever more convinced my Edwardian pub idea would fly. Assuming there are other pissheads out there.

The concept is simple. Find a genuine Edwardian pub like, for example, the Adelphi or Garden Gate in Leeds, and have a range of Edwardian beers. Maybe occasionally jumping to another decade – say the 1930’s – for a week. Please get in touch if you have a suitable pub and like the idea.

Mike seems to be shifting a fair number of the four packs of historic beer styles. Lost and Forgotten Beer Styles it’s called. As is my talk tomorrow. The pack includes a little booklet which is a summary of that talk. An odd mix of beer history and punk reminiscences.

I ask Mike what connections the projector for tomorrow’s talk has. “What projector? I plan using a whiteboard.”

Ah, that’s not great. “I’ve prepared a Powerpoint. I need a projector.” Gabe puts out the word on social media to see if anyone has a projector we can borrow. I hate all the technical stuff.

Before I know it, closing time is upon us again. Mike, Gabe and I go to a pizza place. Which also sells good beer. Only Gabe orders a pizza. Mike and I share a charcuterie plate, followed by sardines on toast.

Sitting outside with sausage evokes memories of lazy evenings in the Bavarian sticks, nibbling meat and cheese. Interrupted by languorous draughts of beer.

The light slips behind the hills and night creeps up to embrace us with its dark fingers.

Another good day.



Zebulon Artisan Ales  
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/


All Souls Pizza
175 Clingman Ave,
Asheville,
NC 28801.
http://www.allsoulspizza.com/

Asheville day one

I don’t get the best night’s sleep. Despite slipping into slumber easily. I wake around 4 AM and sleep fitfully thereafter.

I feel pretty knacked when I get up. A cooked breakfast. That’s what I need to liven myself up. I make my way downstairs to the hotel restaurant. I start to order two eggs over easy and bacon, with coffee and orange juice.

The waitress tells me: “Getting the buffet breakfast will work out cheaper.”

“OK, I’ll have that then.”

Having the buffet means I can pile extra bacon onto my plate. More bacon is never bad. The grease livens me up a bit. I return to my room for some lazing around watching TV. My flight to Asheville isn’t until 13:10.

I’m through security in 5 minutes. Mind you, I do have TSA pre. Meaning I don’t need to remove my watch, belt or shoes and my laptop can stay in its bag. I still don’t understand why this is considered secure for TSA pre passengers, but not for everyone else. But I’m not complaining.

I must be tired. I can’t be arsed to go to the bar. Instead I just wait at the gate reading Private Eye. As usual, they’re overbooked and asking for volunteers to be bumped. Surely that just displaces the problem to the next flight, which is probably also overbooked?

It’s only a small plane. Luckily I’ve only got a small rucksack as carry-on. I can just about squeeze it into the tiny overhead locker. Despite it weighing a ton, being packed with books. Just happy the damned thing off my shoulder.

Mike Karnowski, owner, brewer and all-round dogsbody of Zebulon Artisan Ales, is picking me up. He has a sign saying “Dodgy Mild”.

Once in his pickup, he pours me a beer from a vacuum flask. Into a full imperial pint glass.

“It’s a 1920’s AK. My all-day drinking beer. It’s only 2.7%, so I can drink it while at work without getting smashed, but it still satisfies as a beer.”

Very nice it is, too. Though he only brews it for himself. “It’s too weak to sell commercially.” I blame the US tax system – there’s a flat rate of tax, irrespective of strength - for making lower-gravity beers unviable.

Before heading over to the brewery, we drop by the house where I’ll be staying to drop off my junk. I’ll have the whole place to myself, which is pretty cool. The owners – who live elsewhere – run their business from the basement. They only ask one thing of me: “Will you water the plant pots next to the front door every day? They get dry.”

We chat with then a while then progress to Weaverville.

Weaverville, the location of his brewery, is a small town a few miles north of Asheville.  A location in Asheville itself would have been too expensive, Mike explains.

On our way there, Mike tells me that he struggled to come up with a name for his brewery. The first few he came up with were too close to existing brewery names. With a few days to go until opening, he still hadn’t settled on one. Then he came up with Zebulon.

“What does Zebulon mean?” I ask Mike.

“It’s an old-fashioned southern first name.”

A fictional planet in a 1950’s Scifi novel is what popped into my head. I’m slightly disappointed by the real explanation.

This part of North Carolina is beautiful. Full of lushly wooded hills and rushing rivers. Though, obviously, this being the USA there’s a motorway cutting right through them.

The brewery is in a former firehouse on an alleyway in the centre of Weaverville. Well, what there is of a centre. It’s not a huge place. A couple of dozen businesses line Main Street.

A small area outside the brewery is roped off with a few barrels for tables and some chairs. Most of which are occupied. The entrance is through the front of a tardis, which Mike has borrowed for the occasion.

And what is that occasion? A recreation of the beers you’d find in an Edwardian pub. It’s something I’ve dreamt of or years. In terms of beers, the years just before WW I are my favourites. When you’d find a decent range of strengths, colours and flavours. It’s like travelling back in time to 1910. Hence entering via a tardis.

For $20, punters get a special glass and five smallish pours. Being a special guest, I get an imperial pint glass and as much beer as I can drink. Which, those who know me will attest, can be a frightening amount.

Gabe, Mike’s partner, is on the door handing out the glasses and drink tickets.

These are the beers*:

Chris, brewer at a small place in Asheville, is performing barman duties.  Being sensible, I start with a Mild rather than a Burton. It’s rather good. Not too sweet, but with a pleasant No. 3 invert character.

I’m soon chatting with various punters. Which is sort of what I’m here for. Surprising how many people know who the hell I am. Some mornings I’m not that sure. Several tell me that they saw my last talk. And are coming on Sunday. Can’t have done that bad a job last time.

I shift a few books – which is sort of why I’ve come. I hope I can get rid of a lot more. It was a pain lugging as many over as I did. I want to return with as few as possible.

Explaining the beers, their history and ingredients is good fun. Always pleasant to not see eyes glazing over – as is the case with my family – when I talk about this stuff.

The stereo is blasting out a variety of 1970’s punk classics. There’s a reason for that. Connected with the talk I’ll be giving on Sunday. But I’ll get onto that later.

Browsing one of my books, young woman asks “What language is this? Is it Belgian?”

I take a look. Bum. I’ve brought over both my copies of the Dutch translation of the Home Brewer’s Guide to Vintage Beer.

A young woman wearing muddied overalls enters. It’s Chris’s fiancée, Jessica. At first I think it’s some bizarre fashion, like ripped jeans. Turns out that works on a farm and the mud spattering is genuine.

The brewery doesn’t stay open late. The last punter is turfed out by 7 PM. Once everything is tidied up, we (Mike, Gabe, Chris, Jessica and I) move on to Hi Wire Brewing where there’s a food truck.

I visited Hi Wire in the centre of Asheville last time I was in town. But that’s not where we go. They’ve now got a second, much larger, location in Biltmore village, a little to the south of downtown.

We drink some more beer and I eat a Cuban sandwich. Which is a first for me.

We don’t stay out that late. Which is just as well, me being well knackered. Sleep overtakes me quickly, like a BMW on the autobahn. Let’s hope it doesn’t end in a wreck again.




* You can find the recipes in mine and Kristen's excellent bbok, 1909 Beer Style Guide.


Zebulon Artisan Ales  
8 Merchants Alley,
Weaverville,
NC 28787.
http://www.zebulonbrewing.com/


Hi-Wire Brewing - Big Top  
2A Huntsman Pl,
Asheville,
NC 28803.
https://hiwirebrewing.com/big-top/

Let’s Brew - 1862 Barclay Perkins XX

These Barclay Perkins early Mild recipes are such fun, I just have to keep on going. Plus they’re a handy addition to the new edition of “Mild! Plus” I’m working.

Working on along with several other projects. “Victory!” – have I ever published that? (I’ve just checked.) Nope, not published that yet. And it could be a little tricky to release, seeing as it weighs in at almost 900 pages. Considerably more than the maximum Lulu book length. Looks like it will need to be a two volume job.

But I digress like a politician asked a tricky question. Back to Mild Ale, in particular the 1862 XX of my favourite London brewery Barclay Perkins.

As you can see, this is another typical Victorian Mild Ale, pale in colour, high in alcohol and packed full of hops. Just about everything a modern Mild isn’t. But what would be the fun if this was exactly like modern interpretations of the style? Plus I’d be out of a job.

Once again, the recipe is  dead simple. Just white malt and Kent hops. The brewing record doesn’t even specify which bit of Kent. Goldings are always  a safe bet. I’m slightly surprised that no foreign ingredients have shown up in these recipes yet. A lot of US hops were being imported in the 1860’s.

You’ll note that the boil has become much shorter, down from 3 hours or more to just 75 minutes. I’ve absolutely no idea why the earlier boils were so long nor why they were suddenly cut so much.

1862 Barclay Perkins XX Ale
pale malt	18.00 lb	100.00%
Goldings 75 mins	3.00 oz
Goldings 60 mins	3.00 oz
Goldings 30 mins	3.00 oz
OG	1079.2
FG	1020
ABV	7.83
Apparent attenuation	74.75%
IBU	92
SRM	7
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	163º F
Boil time	75 minutes
pitching temp	64º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1099 Whitbread Ale

Atlanta

As usual, the journey begins with a number 15 bus. All the way to Zuid this time, as the 197 doesn’t currently stop at Haarlemmermeerstation.

It’s an early start for me, as my flight is at 10:35. And they’re still advising getting to Schiphol 3 hours before departure.

My heart sinks as I see the queue for the bag drop-off queue. Right out into the corridor. They’re so busy that, in addition to the baggage machines, all the check in counters are manned. Which is where I drop off my bay, the old-fashioned way. At least I can see, as I wait to ditch my bag, that the security queue isn’t all the way down the stairs this time.

The queue still isn’t exactly what I’d describe as short. But bag drop-off, security and passport control only take an hour or so. Only? What’s become of my expectations? Have they really got so low?

Once through all the shit, I pick up my traditional bottle of duty-free whisky. Not Laphroaig this time. I can’t resist the Talisker at just €38.

On the way to my gate, I grab a bacon and egg sandwich. A classic health-food breakfast. Having plenty of time to kill, there’s also time for a bar visit. I manage to resist Heineken Extra Cold and go for just normal Heineken. Which is still too cold for my tastes.

Once in my seat, I pug in the noise-cancelling headphones and look for shit comedy films to watch. I find the lightest sort of drivel makes the flight fly by. And that’s what it’s all about: making the journey seem as short as possible. And what’s more drivelly than Neighbours 2? The sequel to a crap film.

Funnily enough, despite having visited Atlanta before, I’ve never been in the airport. Last time I arrive by train and left by Greyhound bus. Luckily, there isn’t much of a queue for immigration. I’m through pretty quickly, but my bag is already on the carousel.

I’m staying downtown. Just for one night. I jump in a taxi to take me there. I’m pleased to learn that it’s a fixed fare - $32. A bargain, considering how far out the airport is, compared to Schiphol.

I’ve arranged to meet Mitch Steele in the Porter Beer Bar at 6 PM. I’m a bit pushed for time and by the time my taxi drops me there, it’s 6:15. But Mitch is nowhere to be seen. After a while I twig that I’ve set the time on my watch incorrectly. I actually arrived in the pub at 5:15.

I’ve plenty of time to check out the pub, a long thin affair. As usual, my arse is parked precariously on a bar stool.

Mitch duly trolls up at the appointed time. It’s good to see him again. We always have dead interesting chats. This time, as so often, it turns to history. I express my fear that future historians will have very little hard information about the current crop of breweries. Mostly because brewers don’t have brewing ledgers like in the old days. Electronic records, in particular, are likely to get lost.

Mitch has expounded on our chat here:

http://hoptripper.com/brewing-records-and-why-they-matter/

It's a theme that should be adressed before vital information is lost.

We share a few beers, eat a little, but don’t make it too late.

Back at my hotel, I force myself to stay awake another couple of hours. Watching some crap TV. When I do jump in bed, sleep comes quickly, emptying my overexcited mind like an unplugged sink.




The Porter Beer Bar
1156 Euclid Ave NE,
Atlanta,
GA 30307.
http://www.theporterbeerbar.com/

Milk Stout legally defined

I'm back with Milk Stout again. Intrigued as to how Mackeson's court case against Jenners turned out? Well, you'll find out today.

It's such a weird case, which basically hung on the definition of what constituted Milk Stout. Mackeson's argument was that to be called Milk Stout a beer had to contain a considerable amount of lactose, something Jenners disputed.

""MILK STOUT" RIGHTS.
MESSRS. MACKESON WIN THEIR CASE.
MAGISTRATE'S INTERESTING DECISION.
At Tower Bridge Police Court on Saturday morning Mr. Rose gave his decision in the milk stout case, in which Messrs. R. H. Jenner and Sons, brewers, of Southwark Park-road. London, S.E., were summoned at the instance of Messrs. Mackeson and Co., brewers, of Hythe, under the Merchandise Marks Act. for selling stout to which a false trade description had been applied.

Mr. Moritt appeared for the complainants, and Mr. Kerley for the defendants.

Mr. Rose said the false trade description alleged, was contained in the words, "Milk stout," and from the evidence given in support and refutation of the allegation he found the following facts: —In the years 1908, 1909 and 1910 patents were granted for improvements of malt liquors chemically known as lactose, to such malt liquors as beers, stouts, and porters. The complainants acquired the patents in 1908, and thenceforth proceeded to brew under them a beverage to which they gave the name "Milk Stout." It was made the addition of 9lbs. of lactose to each 36 gallon barrel of stout. They sold and advertised the beverage, and granted 14 licences to other persons for the making and sale thereof. Although doctors had occasionally prescribed a mixture of stout and milk to patients, and although about thirty years ago a patent was granted to some foreigners for making "milk stout," no such liquor seemed have been made and sold, and no article of commerce of the nature or name of "milk stout" was in the market, or known before the complainants' beverage, "milk stout.""
Hastings and St Leonards Observer - Saturday 03 February 1912, page 7.

According to Mackeson 9 lbs of lactose per 36-gallon barrel constituted a Milk Stout. That's pretty straightforward. Interesting that in just a couple of years they had already issued 14 licences to other breweries.

"A patent was granted to some foreigners" sounds rather Daily Mail, don't you think? How exactly is that relevant? Would the patent still have been in force if it hadn't belonged to Johnny Foreigner?

Jenners, however, has their own take on Milk Stout:

"About 18 months ago the defendants, after experiments by their brewers, began to make and sell a stout containing one pound of dry milk powder in each 36 gallons of the liquor. The bottles were labelled the defendants "Milk stout," in large type, and the labels described the contents "a full-bodied, soft-flavoured, easily digested stout, containing a large proportion of the nutritive matter, and highly recommended for its food value" This "milk stout" was analysed, on behalf of the complainants by eminent analytical chemists, who failed to detect in it any lactose. But on the evidence the defendants it would seem that their stout contained half a pound of lactose to the 36 gallon barrel, and certain other constituents of milk. Counsel for the defence contended that "milk stout" was no trade description all; that the words had no definite meaning; that if they meant stout containing ingredients of milk, the defendants' beverage contained them rather than the complainants', and that the quantity of those ingredients was immaterial."
Hastings and St Leonards Observer - Saturday 03 February 1912, page 7.

 As far as Jenners were concerned, if a Stout had some form of milk in it in any quantity, then it could be called a Milk Stout. Which is a very loose definition. Though I must admit that they do have a point.

Unfortunately for them, the only person whose opinion mattered at this point, the magistrate, disagreed with them:

"He (the Magistrate) had only to decide whether the defendants were liable penalties under the Merchandise Marks Act, 1887, for selling, etc.. goods which

A FALSE TRADE DESCRIPTION
had been applied. The words used in section 3 of the Act were not "description of the material," but only "as the material of which any goods are composed." The question was were the words "milk stout" a description as to the material of which the liquor was composed. The words "milk stout were two common words, but the combination seemed, on the evidence, and in his experience, to be new. The complainants appeared the first persons to combine them, and to apply them to a special concoction of their own. Mr. Mackeson said that apart from the label and qualifying words he should expect "milk stout" to mean milk and stout mixed together, but it was doubtful whether most people would expect the same hearing the expression for the first time. The omission of the conjunction "and" between the words could not disregarded, for it was habitually used in the popular description of so many merely mixed beverages, such as sherry and bitter, brandy and soda, and whiskey and seltzer, nor could the defence rely on the compound mixed milk punch as an example of the ommission the conjunction, because the punch in that case was not another liquor mixed with milk, but the name of a compound of milk and spirits when they were mixed. The combination of the words was new. but it bad been published somewhat extensively by the complainants and their licensees, and had become generally known to the brewing trade, and to a large body of the public as the trade description of a kind of stout each pint of which contained a substantial quantity of the nutritious ingredient of milk called lactose, or milk sugar in solution. In his opinion the expression "milk stout" was a trade description within the meaning of the Act of the beverage brewed by the complainants and licensees under the patents. After becoming so known the term was applied by the defendants to stout brewed by them, which contained no appreciable quantity of lactose, although it contained some other ingredients of milk. Having come to the conclusion that "milk stout" was a trade description of stout containing a substantial quantity of lactose, he determined that it was a false trade description when applied by the defendants to stout which did not contain an appreciable quantity lactose. At the same time he thought that it was applied without any fraudulent intent, and in the bona-fide belief that the complainants had acquired no right to the exclusive application of the term "milk stout" to the beverage made and sold by them, and that if ingredients of milk were combined with stout by any other process, or in any other proportions than those patented, the name could be lawfully applied the combination.

Defendants were fined £5, and thirty guineas costs.

Mr. Moritz suggested that the Magistrate should give fifty guineas as costs.

Mr. Kerley. I beg to draw attention to the fact that this is a very valuable monopoly, and complainants have succeeded getting it. (Laughter.)

Mr. Kerley also intimated that defendants would consider the advisability of appealing to Sessions, or asking the Magistrate to state a case."
Hastings and St Leonards Observer - Saturday 03 February 1912, page 7.

Jenners problem was only coming up with their version of Milk Stout after Mackeson had already got the term into common usage. And had established it as a Stout containing lactose. Obviously, they were trying to cash in on a new trend. Something they couldn't do with a licence, as Mackeson had already issued an exclusive licence for London to someone else.

The magistrate went pretty easy on Jenners when it came to punishment. £5 wasn't exactly a huge fine.

I'd love to see a similar case today arguing about what constitutes an IPA. I could imagine Stone taking Charles Wells to court over their version of IPA. How would their argument go? Probably that IPA had to have a minimum of 6% ABV and 80 IBUs. Though I guess the fact that Wells had been brewing their version for sveral decades before Stone was even founded might have undermined their argument a bit.

Can you think of any other fun beerstyle defining court cases? What about one against a brewer for calling a beer Stout but not using any roast barley? Or a Mild containing too many hops. Possibly against a southern brewery for brewing a Brown Ale that was too strong?